


Writing for Gul Garak: A Mirror Universe G/B Parody

by MKK



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, Innuendo, M/M, Mirror Universe, Parody, Sexual Humor, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 12:05:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2347865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MKK/pseuds/MKK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Mirror Universe, Gul Elim Garak is presented with one very fascinated Terran author of G/B stories as well as an enticing Julian Bashir - Garak only hopes the writer can come up with a good G/B scene for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writing for Gul Garak: A Mirror Universe G/B Parody

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about this - as part of my wish to get all my material, both new and old, into my Archive account, I resurrected this little work and am posting it tonight. Feel free, all you fellow writers, to imagine yourselves in the shoes of the Mary Sue character (so blatantly portrayed that she's even called... Mary.) This does require some enjoyment of the "mirror DS9 universe," and Gul Garak, though, in all their splendor.

The line of Terran slaves waited in front of the desk, their nervous shuffling and darting glances revealing only a hint of the terror they were experiencing within. The outlook for them was grim - they comprised the latest "shipment" of slaves to the Terok Nor uridium refinery, operated jointly by the Klingon-Cardassian Alliance and the government of Bajor. Before the slaves would be put to work processing ore and attending to the myriad of other tasks that went into running such a large facility, First Officer Elim Garak had asked to inspect them.

Garak - his name alone was enough to strike fear into the hearts of the slaves, and two of the hearts in particular. Garak was a Cardassian; that simple phrase, however, cannot begin to fully convey the essence of Gul Garak. He was charming, intuitive, cruel, powerful, intimidating, handsome, ruthless, intelligent, sensual - in short, he was a Cardassian. The slaves raised their eyes in unison and stood gaping at him as he strode into the room, followed by two of his aides, Damar and Dukat.

"Well, well, well," he said cheerfully, seating himself behind the desk, "what a fine-looking collection of individuals I see before me." One of the new female slaves watching the little Cardassian procession heartily concurred, but deemed it wisest not to show any reaction. Garak smiled at the slaves from under his ridged brows and they shuddered, again in unison. "All right - time to find out who it is I'm dealing with." Damar handed him a datapadd and he perused it for a few seconds, then addressed the waiting group. "As you know, you're here because the Klingon-Cardassian Alliance WANTS you here. You're here to process ore - a few of you 'luckier' slaves will be allowed to work in the kitchens, the laundry, or data storage." He paused ominously. "And one of you - extremely lucky - slaves will become my personal servant." A tremor passed through the group; Garak sensed it and grinned. "All right then - shall we begin?"

Dukat stepped over to the row of slaves and unceremoniously shoved the first one forward till she stumbled against the desk, trying to regain her balance at the same time. "This one, Gul, told us she's a 'writer.'" 

"A writer?" Garak looked mildly interested.

"Yes - a very misguided Terran - she writes what she calls 'G/D' stories."

"G/*B*!" the woman corrected him, alarmed. Dukat cuffed her across the face. Garak, already blanching in horror at the thought of the "G/D" stories this person had undoubtedly been producing on Earth, didn't hear her correction. "Ore processing," he proclaimed decisively; the misguided Terran's anguished screams echoed down the corridor as two guards dragged her away. The next slave was likewise unceremoniously flung against the desk.

"Mary Sue. She's also a 'writer,' Gul." Damar grinned, anticipating Garak's reaction.

"Hmm." He leaned forward. "So, dear Mary Sue, what do you write?"

Mary swallowed hard. What to say? How to answer? Just two weeks ago, she had been on Earth, in Wisconsin - then came the UFO, and the period of unconsciousness and disorientation, and the strange, horrifying discovery of the alternate universe... And now here she was, on Terok Nor, facing First Officer Garak - oh, the horror and the soul-numbing terror of it all - "Thank you, Lord," she breathed.

"What was that?" Garak leaned forward. Mary swallowed again but found herself unable to speak - those eyes, those gorgeous blue Cardassian eyes - "Do you also write these - 'G/D' - stories?" He spat out the letters with distaste.

"Hardly ever - I mean, NO, Gul - G/B. Only G/B," she whispered. He looked pleased.

"Excellent, my sweet." He sat regarding her in silence for a few moments. Mary tried to meet his eyes but instead found her gaze drifting downward, down the front of his uniform, down past the mirror-like surface of the desk top, down to - Garak's cock, resting in his lap underneath the desk. She blinked rapidly in shock. Never in all her wildest writer-ly imaginings had she invented something that large for him - she felt herself beginning to grow dizzy; Damar swiftly moved over to her and placed his hand under her arm, supporting her. Even through the haze in which she suddenly swirled, Mary thought to herself how appealing an occasional G/Damar story would be... Garak had again begun to speak.

"You intrigued me at first, my dear, I must admit. But as I watched you, I detected something in you that I didn't like, some tendency toward servility and submission that I can not and will not tolerate." Mary looked up at him, puzzled. "Oh yes, you may try to deny it now, try to rebel against me, but within days it would be 'yes, Gul Garak, whatever you say, Gul Garak.'" He spat angrily. "No, get her out of my sight, she disgusts me. Perhaps a few months in - ore processing - will strengthen her spirit sufficiently for my needs." Mary secretly wondered at the faulty logic of that, but saw no need to defy the First Officer further. 'And besides,' she consoled herself, 'Damar and Dukat also work as overseers down in Processing. Could be worse, Mary, could be worse. Could be a whole lot BETTER, too, of course...' She froze in terror, though, at Garak's next words: "Oh, before she begins her duties there, I want you to interrogate her, Dukat." INTERROGATE her?! To learn WHAT? Dukat only nodded his head in acknowledgment; he had evidently been through all of this before.

The remaining slaves clustered together as if for mutual support. Garak eyed them all hungrily; a delectable little group, with probably not a writer among them. His eyes roamed lazily over his captives, coming to rest on one of the most beautiful and exotic young Terran males he had ever seen. "Bring that one forward," he said to Dukat, who hurriedly obeyed.

"What is his name?"

"Julian," Dukat answered, "Julian Bashir."

"Julian BASHIR?" Garak crowed. Bashir?! B!! The G/B stories! Yes! This was it. This was the one - "So, my dear Julian Bashir," he cooed, tracing a finger down Bashir's chest, "how does it feel to be chosen as the personal slave of Gul Elim Garak?"

Bashir flinched at the touch. Garak took note of this and angrily pulled Bashir toward him. "You dare to defy me? ME? I could have you whipped for that." I could have you whipped for a lot LESS than that, he realized - 'In fact, I could have you whipped for absolutely nothing at all - in fact, I could just THREATEN to have you whipped, and that alone would send you into a fit of terror - my God, it's amazing how much power I have, isn't it? I have more power than I even know what to DO with - I have-'

"Gul Garak! Gul Garak!" Dukat was shouting at him as Garak smiled dreamily.

"Yes?" He tore himself away from his self-absorbed thoughts.

"Shall we 'prepare' the prisoner for service?"

"Yes - yes, do so. I'll be in my quarters. You, Damar, assign the rest of the prisoners to their new duties. Dukat, take a guard and see that Bashir becomes familiarized with what will be expected of him. Oh, and make sure he is wearing - the special slave clothing - the next time I see him." He rose to his feet, the heavy cock freed from its cramped position under the desk. Bashir stared at it in horror - he had a feeling, an ominous and yet frighteningly accurate feeling, that he was going to be getting to know that cock quite intimately, and quite soon. But he wasn't given much time to reflect, as Dukat marched him down the corridor and into a small room that was evidently a cell. 

"Slave, you'll undress here and put on the clothing that you see there on the bed. Place your old clothing here in this receptacle. I'll be back for you in five minutes and I expect to see you fully - adorned - at that time." Bashir gulped. The door slid closed and he was alone. He hesitantly approached the bed and began examining his new wardrobe, then felt himself recoil in shock from the degrading and humiliating garments.

"No! NO!" he screamed. "I will NOT wear these things!" No one heard him, however. He looked down at his own dignified attire - thin shirt, sleeveless, open halfway down the chest and the back, shorts that almost revealed the rise of his buttocks - yes, he felt like a MAN dressed this way, not some slave-boy plaything. But those damned Cardassians expected him to wear heavy leather shoes, black jeans, a leather jacket, and a long-sleeved white t-shirt with the letters "I AM GUL GARAK'S PERSONAL HOUSEHOLD SLAVE AND PERSONAL SEX SLAVE" emblazoned in black on the front of the shirt. No - no - he couldn't do it. When Dukat returned, he was still sitting on the bed, hugging his knees, wearing his old clothing.

"Ah, slave, I see that our garments are not to your liking."

"No, they are not." Bashir stood up. "I will NOT be known as 'Gul Garak's Personal Household Slave.' I will NOT. I demand you take that phrase off of the shirt."

"As you wish, slave. However, be warned that First Officer Garak is expecting to see you in the entire slave ensemble, with all phrases intact." He produced a small brush and painted over the offending letters on the shirt, then stood back and watched as Bashir slipped it over his head. In fact, he continued to watch as Bashir completed the entire dressing ritual - 'Such a beautiful young man,' he thought, 'and such an attractive body. Of course, there's nothing to compare with our First Officer's cock, but still, Bashir is quite - enticing.' Finally, when the prisoner was fully and humiliatingly dressed in his slave attire, Dukat led him to Garak's quarters.

Bashir was fuming. "I've never felt so ridiculous," he raged. Dukat shushed him. "Quiet, slave - at least I let you have your way with the shirt." It was true - Bashir DID feel a little less servile than he otherwise would have; wearing the slogan "I am Gul Garak's Personal Sex Slave" was one thing, but having to publicly advertise that he was his HOUSEHOLD slave as well - Bashir began to fume all over again. The nerve of these overbearing Cardassian bastards!

Dukat rang the chime outside Garak's quarters, then pushed Bashir inside with a leer in his eyes and made a quick retreat. Garak was sitting on the bed, a bowl of bright red strawberries in his lap. "Here - would you like a strawberry?" he asked, then abruptly remembered - "no, I forgot, wrong parody -" He rose and walked over to Bashir, his eyes traveling up and down the slender form. "Nice - very, very nice. I chose well." He smiled. "However, I notice that you've made a little alteration to your shirt - why is that?"

"Because..." Bashir faltered.

"Yes?" The deep blue eyes bored into him, demanding a response.

"Because... because it's all just too damned humiliating, that's why!" There; he'd said it, he could worry about the consequences later. Garak seemed amused at his boldness, although his eyes had furrowed in concern and disapproval.

"You'll be given another shirt tomorrow. See that you wear it WITHOUT editorial corrections." Bashir bowed his head but didn't answer. "And," Garak continued, "I don't want to hear any more from your proud, haughty Terran mouth about the humiliations you refuse to endure. I'll teach you humiliation! Beginning this very minute, I'll teach you humiliation!" 

He grabbed the back of Bashir's head and forced it down till Bashir's lips were pressed against Garak's cock. 'I don't believe this,' he silently wailed, 'this is awful!' He struggled to breathe, but Garak's arms held him firmly against the enormous cock, till Bashir gave up and simply began to hold his lips against it resignedly. Garak was pleased at the sudden capitulation and relaxed his hold somewhat, allowing Bashir some slight room to breathe. 'He's actually done it, he's really as evil as they say.' Bashir felt faint; his dread of the events the future days would hold made his head swim.

"And now, my sweet slave, I wish you to see the delights in store for you if you choose to disobey me." Garak took firm hold of Bashir's arm and led him out the door and to the turbolift; once inside, he turned toward Bashir with an evil gleam in his eye and said, "Ore processing." Bashir felt his heart begin to pound. Ore processing - he had heard rumors of the horrendous conditions there, and the callous disregard for human life that the overseers unfailingly displayed; he had hoped he would be spared the sight entirely. But no. The turbolift stopped its descent, and Garak again pulled him by the arm into the vast, open processing area. The first sight to greet Bashir was Overseer Odo, standing on a small dais, waving a baton back and forth. As he waved the baton, several hundred prisoners sang "Whistle While You Work" in time to Odo's instructions; Bashir put his hands over his ears at the hideous sound. One unruly young slave in the corner had begun to loudly sing out "I don't want to work, I just want to bang on the drum all day!" but two Klingon guards threw his makeshift drum into a corner and viciously hustled him out of the room.

Garak's gaze swept the large processing center, and came to rest on a female slave, partially hidden by an ore cart, scribbling something furiously in a small notebook. He approached her; too late, she looked up and saw him almost upon her.

"What are you doing, slave? Is this your work?"

Odo had joined them, and answered for her. "She's 'gathering material,' Gul. She's a writer - she's trying to find inspiration for another G/B story, or so she says." He sneered.

"'Gathering material,' hmm?" He snatched the notebook from her hand. "And what is this, may I ask? Mary Sue, isn't it?"

The woman nodded miserably. "It's - it's paper, Gul. I usually like to jot some ideas out on paper when the mood strikes me, before I type them into the computer later. You can call me old-fashioned -"

"I will not call you 'old-fashioned;' your assigned name is 'Mary Sue,'" Odo haughtily corrected her, but Garak held up his hand for silence. 

"Do you mean to say," he smiled sarcastically, "that you expect us to provide you with access to a COMPUTER? Dukat, come here." Mary stared at the ground, terrified. "Dukat, interrogate her again."

"No, please," Mary was shocked to hear herself saying, "please, Gul, not Dukat. He's already interrogated me - couldn't I have Damar this time? Or - or -" She waited, not daring to breathe.

"Oh, very well,' he relented. "Damar, interrogate the prisoner. If you find out anything, let me know." Damar strode forward and grabbed the obvious 'Mary Sue' character by the arm. He had no idea what he was to try to learn, but no matter, he wouldn't be a Cardassian if he didn't relish an interrogation for any reason whatsoever. Maybe, he reflected, he ought to try to discover what exactly was IN those so-called G/B stories he had been hearing so much about...

The horrifying tour of ore processing continued. Bashir had never felt so terrified, so alone. At one point, Garak was showing him the worker cafeteria, proudly discoursing on the fact that the lighting system had recently been upgraded. "Do you see that, Julian - do you see the beautiful new lights? There are five lights!" Bashir insisted that, no, there were four lights, at which Garak flew into a rage and ordered him to be interrogated. Luckily, the dinner bell rang and Garak was too hungry to pursue the matter further.

Later that evening, ensconced once again in Garak's quarters, Bashir lay seductively across the bed in his shoes, jeans, jacket, and t-shirt and tried to steel his mind against what was to come. He knew it - he sensed it. This was already a G/B story, but was shortly going to take a turn for the worse and become a violent and graphic G/B story, all because of that annoying self-professed writer down in ore processing who sometimes enjoyed dreaming up that kind of thing. This was all her fault. Bashir jumped up and began to pace angrily. "Damn - I wish I had a little more control over these stories. I wish I could decide, myself, whether I'm going to be the dominant or the submissive each time, or just be sweet and loving, not these 'writer' Terrans -" He froze; someone was at the door. Maybe it was the writer; maybe he could still persuade her to tone down the violence and let him get a good night's rest for a change. The door opened and the Intendant strode in, her skin-tight catsuit accentuating every curve.

"Hello there, darling - you're new here, aren't you? I'm the Intendant of this station," she purred.

"Yes, Intendant - they told me about you."

"They DID?" She looked intrigued. "Tell me, what did they say? Did they tell you that you and I were going to become very, VERY good friends?" She reached for Bashir but he pulled back.

"No, Intendant, please - stop this. This is wrong. The writer of this story doesn't want this at all. Her main passion has always been G/B. G/B! Not B/K, not G/K, not B/D, not G/O, not S/D, not K/S, not, heaven forbid, B/Q -"

The Intendant's head swam from all the confusing letters; she slapped Bashir across the face in an attempt to stop him from talking, but he persisted, "Besides, Intendant, I've had a feeling all evening that the writer was planning to turn this into a violently sexual G/B scene. Don't you see? You're not supposed to be here! She definitely wants you out of here!" At that moment, Garak himself stormed into the room; he had evidently been listening at the door, because he imperiously ordered the Intendant to leave his sight at once. She slunk away, glancing backward over her shoulder and hissing at Bashir; when she had gone, Garak turned toward Bashir, his eyes gleaming with lust and barely-suppressed hunger.

"How are you, my sweet? Ready for another session with - my little cock?"

'Your LITTLE cock?' Bashir thought, aghast. You need to take a look at some other cocks, Mister Garak, if you need a basis for comparison - "Ah... sure!" he lied. "I'm ready... but, please, sir, can I make just one request?"

"A request?" Garak considered the matter. "No, I don't think so, slave. You're definitely the submissive in THIS little story, my pet."

Bashir groaned. Okay, okay, he knew his place, but he still clung to one small shred of hope - "May I offer a suggestion, then?" Garak nodded his assent.

"Be - gentle - with me!" he pleaded.

Garak laughed. "But I distinctly heard you say you wanted a terrifying, violently sexual G/B scene."

"*I* don't want it! The WRITER wants it!" Garak slapped him so hard across the mouth that he saw stars.

"Then let's try to give the 'writer' what she wants, shall we?" He pressed close to Bashir and growled menacingly, "To the bed."

"No... please..." Bashir begged, as he felt himself propelled toward the high bed; he could sense Mary observing the entire scene with fascination, which only increased his agony. Garak flung him down onto his stomach without ceremony and proceeded to tear off Bashir's heavy and abundant clothing, while Bashir struggled to escape the hands and hoped that at least SOMEONE was finding this entertaining.

Three hours and many violent and sexual acts later, Bashir lay across the bed in a stupor; Garak slept soundly nearby, his cock rising and falling with the rhythm of his breathing. Bashir turned onto his side and winced at the sudden pain from his abraded skin and bruised back. "She sets everything up for a big, violent G/B scene," he groaned to himself, "and then she doesn't even have the courtesy to describe any of it to the readers." His gaze rested on Garak's massive cock. 

The largest one he had previously ever seen had belonged to a Klingon; Garak's, however, made even THAT one seem tiny in comparison. How Bashir hated having to share his bed with it - how he hated the way Garak pressed it on him, at any time, and expected him to drop everything and immediately pet and fondle the cock. "Damn him," Bashir thought. "I ought to take his knife and free myself from that disgusting thing once and for all." He grinned at the thought of Garak opening his eyes only to discover his cock, limp, lying on the opposite side of the bed. What a wake-up call! Then again, it was difficult to imagine Garak WITHOUT his cock, extremely difficult; they were so inextricably linked. Bashir rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.

Garak seemed preoccupied the next day; while he was pleased with his performance in the violent G/B scene, and pleased as well with his usual sexual prowess and his impressive cock, he felt that something was missing - that annoying 'writer' down in ore processing was bothering him, getting under his skin in a way he most definitely did not appreciate. She described so much and yet, deep down, so little in her stories, really - it was as if she was afraid to go into detail, afraid to expose the real Elim Garak, the one trapped in her imagination but not fully unleashed on the world. Well, he was going to have to change that.

Bashir stepped out of the shower, naked, drying his hair and sadly eying the day's slave attire, already laid out by Damar at the foot of Garak's bed. 'At least the jeans look a little tighter today,' he thought. Garak rushed up to him, startling him. "Hurry, get dressed. We're going down to ore processing again - I've decided I need a second personal slave." Bashir stared at him, horrified. No, it couldn't be - 

"Did I not please you, Gul?" he asked. Garak only grunted absently; his mind was racing in a different direction.

"It's that 'writer,' that fictional 'Mary Sue' character," he growled. "I'm going to teach her about G/B stories... I'm - WE'RE - going to provide her with all the inspiration she could ever desire." Bashir almost fainted. No, not Mary, not that poor, unsuspecting innocent - Garak had already dragged him halfway down the corridor by the time he found his voice. His protests were useless, however; it was only seconds before he and Garak were again in ore processing, rushing up to Mary, who was desperately trying to hide her notebook under her shirt.

"Yes - yes, Gul?" she squeaked. Garak's gaze swept over her, and his expression became soft and yet menacing all at the same time. Just the way Mary liked it.

"My dear Miss Mary," he smiled. "I've come to take you away from all this, away from this toil and hardship. I've decided that there's nothing I'd like better than to have a G/B writer as my personal slave. What do you think about that?"

"I'm... I'm afraid, Gul," she whispered.

"Afraid? What is there to be afraid of?" He leaned in closer, a small smile playing around his lips. "Isn't this what you've always wanted, always imagined? To serve me? To learn all about me?"

She swallowed hard. "Yes, Gul, but - but sometimes you're kind in the stories, but sometimes you're sort of mean, especially while you're still on Terok -"

"You dare to defy me?" His smile became broader, more cruel. "Perhaps you need to be taught an immediate lesson in what it means to serve your Gul." Bashir, watching in horror, knew only too well what was going to happen next. If only he had been able to reach this woman first and warn her, prepare her, in some way - alas, now it was too late. For her, for him, for all of them. The story was rapidly drawing to its close.

"Come here." Mary approached Gul Garak, trembling uncontrollably.

"Please - couldn't I just stay here and -"

"Silence!" he thundered. "It seems," he sneered, turning toward Bashir, "that YOUR days of service to me will now become a little easier for you - this Mary Sue will be performing many of your former duties." He paused. "Show her the cock."

Dear Lord, no, Bashir silently cried out. She's not ready for this - she can't handle it the way I've already learned to do. Mary was watching them with a terrified expression on her face; the terror nearly became hysteria when she was presented with the reality of Garak's cock. 

"You didn't expect anything like that, did you?" Garak chuckled. "I'll bet nothing like THIS ever found its way into any of those so-called G/B stories, now did it?" Mary could only shake her head. "All right then - don't be shy - grab hold of it." 

Mary struggled to do as she was told, suppressing the urge to scream and end the whole story at least a paragraph too early. The enormous rooster scratched and clawed at her arms, releasing a shower of feathers as it shrieked and beat its wings against her. "So this is it at last - Garak's cock," Mary reflected, as she spit feathers out of her mouth and tried to keep from sneezing in the First Officer's face. Oh yes, this was going to be quite an adventure - as long as she could occasionally reach a computer, this new existence would undoubtedly prove VERY inspirational. She offered Garak a brave smile and allowed Bashir to help her carry her burden, as together they boarded the turbolift for Garak's quarters.

 

The End


End file.
